I am nothing when I am not perpetuating rumours.
I have a unsettled feeling in my stomach, one of monolithic proportions. I can just see a flash of hair and white teeth through the narrow fissure of the doorway. I never use the peep hole because you can only make out a contortioned face and it is difficult to tell if the person on the other side carries a weapon. Time stands still when I slide away the deadbolt and crack open the door just wide enough for the chain lock to catch. I figure it is the milkman causing a racket as he switches out the bottles or the prying neighbour coming round to see if I give her anything new to chew over. Lately, she has been on about my hedges getting too high.
"Can't see naught for the hydrangea," she complains. She sniffs in that wonderfully supercilious manner when I ask her what is so interesting to watch in my garden. "Well, I never!" Sometime much later, she will ask after the company. She will sidle next to me with a smile and a wink as if we are the oldest of mates and ask, "Was that...?"
She is here, really here, the only source of sunlight in the whole of London. She stands there on my stoop, beaming. For minutes we study each other. I am completely enamoured. Pictures do little justice. Memory does little justice. I am rapt with attention now, taking in all the fine details of her face. Her small smile broadens. White teeth.
"Are you going to let me in?" Immediately I am reverted back to age twelve, fumbling and foolish, laughing and blushing stupidly. I shut the door, tug the chain away, yanking the door open again with such urgency that it cracks against the wall. My vehemence has me so abashed that I am gnawing on my lower lip so hard that it is a wonder little rivulets of blood aren't sliding down my chin. She circles her fingers around my wrist, thumb to forefinger. "Easy there, girl," she says, and only then do I begin to think that all of this might be.
As it turns out, she is an erudite young lady, and not only in the ways that you might expect. I take her bags and invite her in. "Make yourself comfortable," I say. "I'll fetch us a drink." I return with drinks in hand and she is stretched out across the lounge, her mouth curving up at the corners. What do I say? What do I do? She shakes her head at the proffered glass, so I set the glass down on the table next to her, napkin tucked up underneath to prevent those pesky rings on the wood. I resent myself for being so tenacious when I shouldn't focus on anything, save for her.
I am deliberately leaving out what happens next. Ever since I tied for best smut post, I have convinced myself that I will never out-do this. Therefore, I will not even make an attempt to write about my erotic exploits. Instead, I will press the fast-forward button.
We are coming to the coda. All play and no work makes for something not-so-dull, but as utterly mind-blowing as it is, we have to maintain a small grasp on reality. She pauses after she opens the door, says nothing. Or she says a million things. It all depends on the way that you look at it. She does not speak with her mouth, but she speaks with everything else: her hands, her eyes, the way that she moves, and the way that she breathes. No goodbyes, because that is exactly what this isn't. Not a hello, either, but a temporary pause. She will be back.
Prying Neighbour is already at my door with a plate of biscuits and a pitcher of iced tea. There are thick chunks of lemon floating in the pitcher. I don't know if it irritates me more that she's there before the car can get out of the driveway or she presumes to know how I take my tea. There will be another send-off today. "Hey, Nosy, let's play a game of Hide and Go Fuck Yourself." Picture no answers and a doorslam. You had it coming, you know.
In other news, I have taught my children so very well. I think I will go hit on Brian Littrell, now.
ETA:
Pavement - The Killing Moon (Echo & The Bunnymen cover)
"Can't see naught for the hydrangea," she complains. She sniffs in that wonderfully supercilious manner when I ask her what is so interesting to watch in my garden. "Well, I never!" Sometime much later, she will ask after the company. She will sidle next to me with a smile and a wink as if we are the oldest of mates and ask, "Was that...?"
She is here, really here, the only source of sunlight in the whole of London. She stands there on my stoop, beaming. For minutes we study each other. I am completely enamoured. Pictures do little justice. Memory does little justice. I am rapt with attention now, taking in all the fine details of her face. Her small smile broadens. White teeth.
"Are you going to let me in?" Immediately I am reverted back to age twelve, fumbling and foolish, laughing and blushing stupidly. I shut the door, tug the chain away, yanking the door open again with such urgency that it cracks against the wall. My vehemence has me so abashed that I am gnawing on my lower lip so hard that it is a wonder little rivulets of blood aren't sliding down my chin. She circles her fingers around my wrist, thumb to forefinger. "Easy there, girl," she says, and only then do I begin to think that all of this might be.
As it turns out, she is an erudite young lady, and not only in the ways that you might expect. I take her bags and invite her in. "Make yourself comfortable," I say. "I'll fetch us a drink." I return with drinks in hand and she is stretched out across the lounge, her mouth curving up at the corners. What do I say? What do I do? She shakes her head at the proffered glass, so I set the glass down on the table next to her, napkin tucked up underneath to prevent those pesky rings on the wood. I resent myself for being so tenacious when I shouldn't focus on anything, save for her.
I am deliberately leaving out what happens next. Ever since I tied for best smut post, I have convinced myself that I will never out-do this. Therefore, I will not even make an attempt to write about my erotic exploits. Instead, I will press the fast-forward button.
We are coming to the coda. All play and no work makes for something not-so-dull, but as utterly mind-blowing as it is, we have to maintain a small grasp on reality. She pauses after she opens the door, says nothing. Or she says a million things. It all depends on the way that you look at it. She does not speak with her mouth, but she speaks with everything else: her hands, her eyes, the way that she moves, and the way that she breathes. No goodbyes, because that is exactly what this isn't. Not a hello, either, but a temporary pause. She will be back.
Prying Neighbour is already at my door with a plate of biscuits and a pitcher of iced tea. There are thick chunks of lemon floating in the pitcher. I don't know if it irritates me more that she's there before the car can get out of the driveway or she presumes to know how I take my tea. There will be another send-off today. "Hey, Nosy, let's play a game of Hide and Go Fuck Yourself." Picture no answers and a doorslam. You had it coming, you know.
In other news, I have taught my children so very well. I think I will go hit on Brian Littrell, now.
ETA:
Pavement - The Killing Moon (Echo & The Bunnymen cover)